


vodka and sunshine

by inyourfishnets



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Sorry!, harry’s kind of an alcoholic and draco is a sunshine man, here’s this., i want to get back into writing so uh., this is not good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 03:09:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16823926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inyourfishnets/pseuds/inyourfishnets
Summary: draco and harry catch up at a bar in london





	vodka and sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> i apologize in advance and love you very much for reading this.  
> can someone tell me why i’m writing drarry in 2018?

__Harry Potter had come to appreciate the little things in life. Things like photography, and painting, and bicycles, and Friends (the tv show, although his actual friends weren’t so bad either). The cars honking outside of his london apartment. Cosmopolitan magazine. The sunshine.

After a brief stint in auror training he realized that he didn’t want to live a life chasing bad guys. He gave up his youth to heroism, and now really just wanted to be young and have fun for a change.

For his 19th birthday, he had gone clubbing for the first time with his friends. Harry never liked crowds or dancing, but that was before he discovered liquor.

_“Thank god we’re not in America, they have to be 21 to drink,_ ” _he said, pausing to take a shot, and then leaning in and pseudo-whispering, “I’m not 21 yet!”_

_”We know, Harry.” Hermione said, glancing at Ron and Ginny._

After that night, and the subsequent hangover, Harry deduced that drinking and dancing every once in awhile might be good for him. But when you’re The Boy Who Lived, a title that seemed so ancient to Harry now, getting tipsy and being escorted home by an equally tipsy man dressed in heinously sheer clothing was guaranteed to make the Daily Prophet (damn fucking journalists) so Harry started going to muggle bars.

Harry of course saw the irony in his hatred of the press every time he added a magazine to his growing pile of National Geographic and GQ and of course Cosmo. Maybe he had become a little voyeuristic— being in the spotlight for so long, it was therapeutic for him to watch other people’s personal lives get hashed out on thin glossy paper.

Which reminded him that he really needed to start going to proper therapy.

But therapy would have to come after alcohol.

Harry stood in front of his bathroom mirror, carefully lining his eyes with gold eyeliner. It had been a gag gift for some christmas or birthday, and had been sitting in a junk drawer until recently. Harry had never been the type to pay attention to his appearance, but after everything that had happened, he decided that a little self care might be beneficial.

Self care for him had shifted from taking the occasional bubble bath to spending a little more money on clothes and decorations for his little flat, to experimenting with makeup. Life is too short to not like the person you see in the mirror, and as he looked in the mirror, he smiled. Reflected back at him was not the 17 year old kid credited with saving the world, who woke up everyday crushed by depression and grief and confusion. that version of himself had been forced to grow up too fast. In the mirror now, Harry saw a young guy ready to have a fun night, his skin glowing, his smile radiant, his eyes sparkling and bold (with the help of some gold liner). _Fierce_ , was his first thought, and then laughed. The sound of his laughter echoing in the otherwise quiet room was jarring, but warm.

_You can’t take the Gryffindor out of the boy._

“Connor, can you get me another cranberry vodka?”

Harry was only one drink in, and he was starting to feel warm buzzing in his body. He wasn’t quite drunk enough to venture out into the jungle of limbs and half-naked men dancing and kissing that was the dance floor, but he was content with sitting at the bar talking to the bartender, Connor, who he was becoming alarmingly close with. He needed to find a new gay bar to hang out at— give poor Connor a break.

“Let me pay for that,” said a voice from behind. Harry spun around in the swiveling barstool, nearly falling out of it. Maybe he was drunker than he thought.

The source of the voice was a man, about Harry’s age, with blond hair and grey eyes and— holy shit.

“Malfoy?”

“Hello, Harry.”

“Holy shit.”

“Eloquent as ever I see,” Draco said, sitting down at the stool beside Harry. Harry was staring wide-eyed at the boy (the man) who he detested so much at school. He looks better now, fitter, there’s more color in his formerly lifeless skin, and there’s light in his eyes.

He looks happy, Harry thought, he looks good. And then he realizes where they’re sitting.

“Wait Draco are you—“

“Gay? Oh yes.”

“How—“

“I’ve known for a long time. I’ve been out for about two years, to the chagrin of my family.”

“Me too!” Harry said, and then for clarification, “Gay. I’m gay. Also. I’m gay also.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. He turned to the bartender, “Can I have a vodka with orange juice?”

“You like screwdrivers?” Harry asked. “I always pictured you as more of a sex on the beach kind of guy.”

Too many drinks later, Draco leaned into Harry, still sitting at the bar. “I really want to apologize for being such a dickface at school.”

“Dracoooo I’m touched! Let’s dance.” Harry was feeling too floaty to confront emotions, and Draco was just as buzzed as Harry and didn’t protest. He let Harry lead him to the dance floor, where Britney was singing about her lack of innocence. Draco put his hands on Harry’s hips and they started moving. It wasn’t graceful, but all they cared about was the feeling of skin on skin and the music pounding through the speakers.

And then the pounding headache, bad enough to wake Harry up. He moaned and sat up in his bed.

 _Thank_ _god_ _I_ _made_ _it_ _home_.

 _Fuck_.

Harry gagged, and ran to his bathroom, and puked vodka and stomach acid into his toilet.

He laid on his bathroom floor, the tiles cool against his skin.

“Oh fuck,”

 _Oh_ _fuck_.

Harry had brought guys home before— but the voice coming from the other room made him sit up so fast he got nauseated again, and the night before came rushing back to him.

_Skin_ _on_ _skin_ _and_ _the_ _music_ _pounding_ _through_ _the_ _speakers._

 _Two_ _gay_ _wizards_ _in_ _a_ _muggle_ _bar_ , _putting_ _the_ _past_ _behind_ _them_.

“ _Can_ _we_ _take_ _this_ _somewhere_ _else_?” _Draco_ _asked_ , _he_ _smells_ _like_ _vodka_ _and_ _sweat_ _and_ _citrus_ _and_ _Harry_ _looks_ _at_ _the_ _man_ _who_ _has_ _come_ _so_ _far_ _since_ _the_ _last_ _time_ _they_ _saw_ _each_ _other_ , _a_ _man_ _who_ _is_ _learning_ _to_ _love_ _himself_ _and_ _love_ _the_ _world_ _around_ _him_.

“ _Yes.”_

 _Draco_ _kissed_ _Harry_ _first_ , _tentatively, up_ _against_ _the_ _door_ _to_ _his_ _flat_.

 _Harry_ _kissed_ _Draco_ _second_ , _on_ _top_ _of_ _his_ _red_ _duvet_.

_And_ _then_ —

“Fuck is right,” Harry said, making his way to his bedroom doorway, “Morning.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Hi.”

“Did you sleep well?”

Draco laughed. “Amazing how you can be so nonchalant about a drunken one night stand with your childhood nemesis.”

Harry looked at Draco. His blond hair was messy, his eyelids droopy, his soft skin—

_his_ _skin_ _is_ _so_ _soft_

Harry could get used to waking up next to pewter eyes and soft skin and blond hair. “That was a one night stand?”

“Make me some coffee and we’ll see. I feel like shit,” Draco said, his voice hoarse, moaning as he moved to get out of bed.

_Moaning_ , _his_ _hands_ _in_ _Harry’s_ _hair—_ _it’s_ _even_ _messier_ _now_ _and_ _Draco_ _loves_ _it—_ “ _Fuck_ , _Harry_ , _Fuck_ ,” _and_ _he_ _moans_ _some_ _more_.

“You’re pretty loud in bed,” Harry teased, moving to his kitchen to get the coffee ready. 

“You’re pretty good in bed. They should praise you for that, not all that ‘defeating an evil wizard’ shit.” Draco followed Harry to his kitchen, wrapped in the red duvet.

“Harry Potter: The Boy Who Shagged.” Harry said. He would have laughed, but his head hurt so bad. He smiled at Draco. Draco smiled at him.

Harry Potter had come to appreciate the little things in life. Photography, painting, magazines, American television— and the blond boy sitting at his kitchen table wrapped in a red duvet, whose smile was like sun beams.


End file.
